something like worship
by emma4713
Summary: He never asks. Jack/Jordan


**Title:** something like worship  
**Fandom/Pairing:** Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip, Jack/Jordan  
**Rating:** R  
**Word count:** 1208  
**Spoilers:** Through The Christmas Show 1.11, though I decide Jack never asks who the father is.  
**Disclaimer:** The characters are not mine. The words are.

-

He never asks. Not with words.

He tells you congratulations and it seems like he means it. His eyes betray him, or at least you think they do. You think there's a question there, worried and hurt and hopeful. It's probably only that first emotion, but it's the last two you want. You want him hurt, jealous that there ever could be anyone else. And you want him to want it, to want a family with you.

But he doesn't ask, doesn't confront the question that has to be there. The pill may be 99.9% effective, but when you think about the number of times you had sex, the chance seems less absurd. You can't remember, can't count exactly how many times, how often. You remember it instead in moments—a gasp against the window of his office, a shudder on top of your desk, a dress that wrinkles pushed above your waist, a loose bowtie dangling against your chest, a kiss in the control room that leaves you breathless and makes Danny ask if you're okay when he sees you later.

Was it a hundred times? More, you think.

You've never seriously thought the sex was why he hired you, but on the days when he seems to literally hate you, it makes you wonder.

He's still got a wife and he still wears the ring. He has never said he loves you. Again, not in words. Maybe in his hand on the small of your back or the way he kisses your cheek sometimes.

So you want him jealous but hopeful, claiming you and wanting you and chasing you. He doesn't ask.

But a day and a half later he walks into your office without even looking at your assistant. He's locked your door and got you pushed against your desk before you finish a snarky welcome.

He kisses with the same passion he has when he yells. You're used to it in the yelling, but the kissing always surprises you.

"I've got a conference call at lunch," you manage to breathe when his lips move to your neck.

"Well then I guess this'll have to be fast," he mutters in your ear before biting the lobe hard enough to make you flinch.

You're wearing a skirt, no pantyhose, because it's California and it's hot and you're fighting the system. You didn't expect anyone to be close enough to notice today. Except now his hands are all over your bare thighs. He's going to fuck you in your office and you've never done this when the building was full. It's always been late nights with darkened hallways and no assistant just outside the door. You've never had to be completely quiet before and he's always made silence difficult in these situations; his hands are working their way up and you're already suppressing moans.

He touches you with something like worship, and you wish he would do it in words. But then he unbuttons your blouse and thoughts about anything besides his skin and heat dissolve.

You're pretty sure you should be reciprocating. You're kissing him, gasping, whispering your moans against his tongue. His fingers trace your nipples and your sides and the crease where your hip meets your thigh and all your hands can do is pull him closer. You want to make him lose control but you've already lost it.

This is how he tells you things—he makes you lose control, takes you out of the world. He's all embroiled passion. His jacket drops to the floor and you loosen his tie, getting the top two buttons of his dress shirt undone so you can dip your fingers in the dampness of the hollow above his sternum. Your panties tangle in your heels as he peels them off of you. You get his belt unbuckled but he pushes your shirt of your shoulders, trapping your hands behind your back. He holds them there, still, and pushes his pants over his hips.

You're on fire by now, like the sun behind the smog of the city. You're glad you didn't wear the pantyhose because the skin of his palm can graze the skin of your upper thigh easily. And with the fervor he had getting your underwear off, the hose probably would have shredded anyway.

He's hard between your legs, leaving smears of wet heat that quickly cool on your skin, but they do nothing to put out the fire.

And then he's inside you, like he's been so many times but like he's never been before. It's skin on skin this time, a new sensation of heat on heat.

He lets your arms go, finally, _finally_, because they've been aching for him. Freed, they wrap around his neck, fingers brushing through his hair. He slips a hand between your bodies and apparently he was serious about this being fast. Your thighs are sweaty against your desk, probably ruining papers but he's fucking you, fucking you hard in your office on your desk and it's all the words you've ever wanted. The light in your office is bright, though everything between you seems so dark, rough forms emanating shadows. Except suddenly everything's blinding and it pulses with the beat of the ripples going through you. And as you come down he pulses too, then falls, warm and heavy, against you.

Your legs had wrapped around his waist at some point and they stay there, heels digging into his back. He's sweated through his shirt, you're sure, and you're glad your blouse was left on the desk instead of on you. Your bra's still on and his pants are around his ankles. It feels dirty—seedy—fucking with clothes on. And now when he pulls out, there's some of him left behind. Not that it matters—you can't get more pregnant—and you're cold and lonely as he pulls up his pants. Empty, even though you're not.

"Enough time?" he asks, half-arrogant, half-condescending until he sees almost-tears and then he's not smirking anymore.

He gathers your blouse and pulls it over your shoulders gently, shushing you. You weren't making any noise. He doesn't patronize to the point of helping with your panties. You're thankful. You don't bother putting them on, at least not in front of him.

He kisses your forehead, standing too close. It'd be romantic but he still has the ring and you still have someone else's baby.

"NBS needs you more than I do," he whispers.

You don't say anything. You know what he means but he needs to say it. You need him to say it. You look away.

"We can't do this if you're president and I'm chairman. And NBS needs you," he pauses. "And I have a wife and you have a baby and men tripping over their feet for you."

You laugh. "Pun intended? Tripp?"

He smirks sadly and moves away, finally, finally. He still never says I love you, he still never asks if it's his. But he takes a step back and kisses you once more, his hand gentle on your cheek.

And tomorrow his hand will still ghost against your back when he leads you into a meeting. Your skin will tingle where the fingertips push, warm through the fabric.


End file.
